A blog for people who already know grammar, spelling, their Strunk & White and Chicago Manual of Style, etc, etc...but want to be the best writers they can be.
I boil words out of submitted samples to make the writing as tight and clean as possible, without changing content or tone.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Boiling a Shadow with Peter Salomon

The great YA horror author Peter Salomon was
gracious enough to offer up Chapter One of SHADOW, forthcoming in Fall of 2014,
so that I might try to boil some verbage out of the 484 words. He also sent me
the rest of the novel to beta read, and it's fantastic--creepy, unsettling, and
unpredictable in all the right ways.

This chapter posed an immediate challenge,
because when condensing I tend to give speech a wide berth, and this selection
is all monologue.Furthermore, it's got some intentional redundancy that's
essential for the piece to work. I had a lot of fun with it.

Here it is:

On what would have been her tenth birthday, the
Probate Court Judge of Chatham County, Georgia declared my best friend legally
dead.Only one witness was called to testify.Me.

“I, Richard James Anderson, swear to tell
the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help me God.”

We were six years old, together as always.
I’ll never forgive myself for being the last person to see her alive. I just
can’t remember what I saw. It’s a blur, a haze. I ate oatmeal for breakfast
that morning. Maple and brown sugar. With a glass of orange juice. I remember
everything about that day but what happened to Melanie. I turned around and she
was gone.

I remember what she was wearing, pink tights
and a pale purple skirt and a white shirt she’d just spilled soda on. We were
playing in her backyard, playing in the bright Georgia sun. I thought maybe she
was hiding. But when I turned around, there was no one there. I counted to one
hundred. I turned around. I never found her.

I swear, she was with me the whole time. I
remember everything: the weather, the sound of cars passing by on the road out
front. I can still smell the freshly cut grass, the wet dog running across the
lawn. I counted to one hundred and then I turned around.

No one ever found her.

That night, my parents gave me medicine to
help me sleep. I tried to remember like the police asked me to but every time I
closed my eyes I would finish counting and turn around and she was gone. I
closed my eyes and I was turning around and turning around and screaming her
name. The dog barked. A car honked.

I counted to one hundred and turned around
but I never found her.

And now, years later, I keep turning around,
hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Only there’s nothing but the dog and the car
and the smell of freshly cut grass.

I placed my hand on the bible. I swore to
tell the truth. The whole truth. Nothing but the truth. So help me God.

But I lied.

The day after the judge declared their
daughter dead, Melanie’s parents buried a very small box that held nothing but
a dress. The one with polka dots she’d worn the first day of first grade. The
matching socks, too. They told me they were moving away but the words didn’t
actually mean anything to me. My parents told me they loved me but they were
just words. Nothing really mattered much any more.

They couldn’t understand. No one did. Not
now. Not six years ago at that miserable excuse for a funeral. And, most of
all, not that day ten years ago when I first met the ghost of my best friend.

So help me God.

The condensation:

On what would have been her tenth birthday, the
Probate Court Judge of Chatham County, Georgia declared my best friend legally
dead.Only one witness was called to testify.Me.

While we could change the last to lines to, “Only I was caused to
testify”, I think it’s got more punch as-is. We could trim the adverb, as the
only kind of dead that can be decreed by a Judge (as opposed to a medical
examiner) is the legal kind, but “legally dead” is such a ubiquitous phrase, I
think it needs to stay. So no changes here.

“I, Richard James Anderson, swear to tell
the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help me God.”

We were six years old, together as always.
I’ll never forgive myself for being the last person to see her alive. I just
can’t remember what I saw. It’s a blur, a haze. I ate oatmeal for breakfast
that morning. Maple and brown sugar. With a glass of orange juice. I remember
everything about that day but what happened to Melanie. I turned around and she
was gone.

This requires a bit of tip-toeing, because we
don’t want to change Anderson’s voice.

Even so, I think the line “I just can’t remember
what I saw” is redundant enough with “I remember everything about that day but
what happened to Melanie” that we can omit one of them. “It’s a blur, a haze”
is two words too long, because we can just pick one and evoke the same imagery
and emotion—but I have a different issue with this line, and that is that it
doesn’t follow with the next paragraph, which is a recounting neither blurry
nor hazy.

Breakfast is eaten in the morning, so we can boil
out “that morning.” As well, orange juice comes in glasses (as opposed to mugs
or bowls or plates), so unless the container is atypical, we can get rid of
that, too.

I tried omitting “about that day”, and while it
tightens up the sentence, when combined with the rest of the paragraph it
appears that Melanie disappeared at breakfast. As we know from the next
paragraph she didn’t, I put it back.

We were six years old, together as always. I’ll
never forgive myself for being the last person to see her alive. I ate oatmeal
for breakfast. Maple and brown sugar. With orange juice. I remember everything
about that day but what happened to Melanie. I turned around and she was gone.

I remember what she was wearing, pink tights and a
pale purple skirt and a white shirt she’d just spilled soda on. We were playing
in her backyard, playing in the bright Georgia sun. I thought maybe she was
hiding. But when I turned around, there was no one there. I counted to one hundred.
I turned around. I never found her.

We don’t have to say “I remember”, because if he
didn’t remember, he couldn’t supply the details. The second “playing” adds a
rhythm to the sentence, but I’m not sure that it’s necessary.

Counting to one hundred implies that they’re
playing hide and seek; else he wouldn’t just randomly count when he couldn’t
find her. This makes “I thought maybe she was hiding” redundant, and same with
“But when I turned around, there was no one there.”

She wore pink tights and a pale purple skirt
and a white shirt she’d just spilled soda on. We were playing in her backyard
in the bright Georgia sun. I counted to one hundred, and turned around. I never
found her.

I swear, she was with me the whole time. I remember
everything: the weather, the sound of cars passing by on the road out front. I
can still smell the freshly cut grass, the wet dog running across the lawn. I
counted to one hundred and then I turned around.No one ever found her.

I love the rhythm of the repeated phrases at the
end of these two paragraphs, so I don’t want to mess it up. Still, there are
some things that can be boiled out.

Cars drive on roads, which typically are in the
front of houses. The smell of cut grass fades with time, so we can make Stephen
King happy and kill the adverb “freshly”.

I swear, she was with me the whole time. I
remember everything: the weather, the sound of cars passing by. I can still
smell the cut grass, the wet dog running across the lawn. I counted to one
hundred, and turned around.

No one ever found her.

That night, my parents gave me medicine to
help me sleep. I tried to remember like the police asked me to but every time I
closed my eyes I would finish counting and turn around and she was gone. I
closed my eyes and I was turning around and turning around and screaming her
name. The dog barked. A car honked.

I counted to one hundred and turned around
but I never found her.

And now, years later, I keep turning around,
hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Only there’s nothing but the dog and the car
and the smell of freshly cut grass.

We can dispense with “That night.” Even though it
could have been during the day, it’s unlikely, and we don’t need to call
attention to things unless they’re worth calling attention to.

I like the second, run-on sentence. It works,
though “like the police asked me to” is the same thing as “for the police”. The
second run-on also works, and despite the redundancy I think the second “and
turn around” helps to add a whirling feel to the prose that it would lose if it
were omitted.

“Freshly”, again, can go.

My parents gave me medicine to help me sleep. I
tried to remember for the police but every time I closed my eyes I would finish
counting and turn around and she was gone. I closed my eyes and I was turning
around and turning around and screaming her name. The dog barked. A car honked.

I counted to one hundred and turned around
but I never found her.

And now, years later, I keep turning around,
hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Only there’s nothing but the dog and the car
and the smell of cut grass.

I placed my hand on the bible. I swore to
tell the truth. The whole truth. Nothing but the truth. So help me God.

But I lied.

Nothing to change here.

The day after the judge declared their
daughter dead, Melanie’s parents buried a very small box that held nothing but
a dress. The one with polka dots she’d worn the first day of first grade. The
matching socks, too. They told me they were moving away but the words didn’t
actually mean anything to me. My parents told me they loved me but they were
just words. Nothing really mattered much any more.

“The day after the judge declared their daughter dead” = the
next day.

“Very small” = tiny. (“Very” is almost always a cuttable word.)

The staccato sentences worked well in the deposition, but could
be broken up a bit here. This also gives us a chance to condense the
information about the dress. “Melanie’s parents buried a tiny box that held
nothing but the polka dot dress she’d worn on the first day of first grade.”

“Actually” is a pernicious adverb that can actually be omitted
every time it comes up (except perhaps once in a while in dialogue) without
really losing anything but verbal clutter. Ditto “really”. “Mean anything to
me” can lose “to me” with no problems.

The “much” can go, too. First, it’s alliterative, and second, it
doesn’t add much to the sentence.

“Anymore” is one word.

The next day, Melanie’s parents buried a tiny
box that held nothing but the polka dot dress she’d worn the first day of first
grade. The matching socks, too. They told me they were moving away but the
words didn’t mean anything. My parents told me they loved me but they were just
words. Nothing mattered anymore.

They couldn’t understand. No one did. Not
now. Not six years ago at that miserable excuse for a funeral. And, most of
all, not that day ten years ago when I first met the ghost of my best friend.

So help me God.

The first two sentences can be combined.

The last sentence can be condensed quite a bit. Every day was
“that day”, “first met” can drop the “first”, “most of all” injects false drama
that you don’t need, because the sentence has plenty of real drama, and “the
ghost of my best friend” is Melanie’s ghost.

No one understood. Not now. Not six years ago at that miserable
excuse for a funeral. And not ten years ago when I met Melanie’s ghost.

So help me God.

After a good turn in the stock pot, here’s what we’ve got:

On what would have been her tenth birthday, the
Probate Court Judge of Chatham County, Georgia declared my best friend legally
dead.

Only one witness was called to testify.

Me.

“I, Richard James Anderson, swear to tell
the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help me God.”

We were six years old, together as always. I’ll
never forgive myself for being the last person to see her alive. I ate oatmeal
for breakfast. Maple and brown sugar. With orange juice. I remember everything
about that day but what happened to Melanie. I turned around and she was gone.

She wore pink tights and a pale purple skirt and
a white shirt she’d just spilled soda on.We were playing in her backyard in
the bright Georgia sun. I counted to one hundred, and turned around.

I never found her.

I swear, she was with me the whole time. I
remember everything: the weather, the sound of cars passing by. I can still
smell the cut grass, the wet dog running across the lawn. I counted to one
hundred, and turned around.

No one ever found her.

My parents gave me medicine to help me sleep. I
tried to remember for the police but every time I closed my eyes I would finish
counting and turn around and she was gone. I closed my eyes and I was turning
around and turning around and screaming her name. The dog barked. A car honked.

I counted to one hundred and turned around
but I never found her.

And now, years later, I keep turning around,
hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Only there’s nothing but the dog and the car
and the smell of cut grass.

I placed my hand on the bible. I swore to tell
the truth. The whole truth. Nothing but the truth. So help me God.

But I lied.

The next day, Melanie’s parents buried a tiny box
that held nothing but the polka dot dress she’d worn the first day of first
grade. The matching socks, too. They told me they were moving away but the
words didn’t mean anything. My parents told me they loved me but they were just
words. Nothing mattered anymore.

No one understood. Not now. Not six years ago at that miserable
excuse for a funeral. And not ten years ago when I met Melanie’s ghost.

So help me God.

484 words down to 403. 17% of the words boiled
out.

Peter looked over what I'd done, and after my
treatment he came out with a 402-word final product (that will see another edit or
two before the book hits print, of course). One place he disagreed with
my choice was when I boiled "freshly" out of "freshly cut
grass."

He had this to say on the matter:

The most obvious place where I didn't accept
your suggestion would be the double use of the adverb 'freshly.' In my first
novel, HENRY FRANKS, there are very few adverbs. That's one of the primary
rules of fiction writing (as Stephen King so wisely attests...see what I did
there?) and one I do happen to agree with. However, SHADOW is written with such
a distinct voice, one that routinely breaks most fiction writing rules:
adverbs, run-on sentences, repeated words, etc.

They are broken often throughout the book
and replaced, for the most part, with some of the rules for writing poetry.
Because of that I found myself leaving 'freshly' in for a couple of reasons: 1)
the rhythm of the voice needed those 2 syllables in there, and in a book where
rhythm is so important and the voice is so strong, I did find myself having to
pay as close attention to syllables (number of and accents on) as to word
choice. 2) 'freshly cut grass' is, for the most part, a trademarked smell (I'm
sure you can buy an air freshener somewhere with that particular scent) that
'cut grass' does not quite capture. That smell is so familiar to pretty much
everybody and would be so memorable to a six year old that I felt using the
'trademark' term of 'freshly cut grass' was an acceptable adverb use.

Peter's objection fits well with my philosophy on polishing a
manuscript. It's not that every adverb needs killing, it's that if there's an
adverb there, it should be because it has to be there. The same goes for every
other word... (Adverbs by nature tend to be extraneous but prolific little
monsters, which is why you hear a lot of static about them and why they have to
die.

But in truth, they just follow the same rules as every other
word: put them only where they're needed.)

So, I have Peter's generally positive opinion of how I did. What
do you think?